And if I meet you on the plain, during the rain,
in blasted Spain—before I spread my wings—uptight
about the fact you danced all night while I was waiting
for the bright morning’s clarity on what’s right,
then you should know that all your charm is gone already,
like the barm in every demijohn of ale, and you will never lift
my veil—at least that’s how I end this tale.
hidden pilcrow 